


Heartlines

by bottlecapmermaid



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, mention of past Snoke/Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21827965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlecapmermaid/pseuds/bottlecapmermaid
Summary: Nothing says devotion like spilled blood.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Heartlines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NymeriaKing (DisappearingGirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingGirl/gifts).



> Inspired by Nym on twitter [ (NymeriaKing on ao3) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingGirl/pseuds/NymeriaKing) here is some Knife Stuff. Go read her work, it is plentiful and wonderful!  
> Talk to me about knives and kylux on twitter [ @p_morguean ](https://twitter.com/p_morguean)

“It’s unsightly,” Hux says, fingers tracing over the ink punched into Kylo’s skin. “He didn’t even tattoo you himself, did he? Had someone else do it?”

“Yes,” Kylo says from his spot at his master’s feet, where he belongs, where he’s lucky to be. “He hired an artist for it. He watched.”

“I don’t like having someone else’s name on my possessions,” Hux says; Kylo flushes with pleasure, hides his face against Hux’s knee--he is Hux’s possession, and he loves hearing it. That’s the end of it for a while, but Kylo can’t help but burn with the shame of imperfection every time Hux’s touch or gaze moves over the old tattoo.

It’s not even pretty, or even striking or interesting. Big black block letters under his left clavicle: SNOKE. At the time Kylo hadn’t cared what it looked like; all that mattered was that it was his master’s name, it meant he knew who he belonged to, it meant everyone else knew who he belonged to, it was a _gift._

It doesn’t feel like a gift anymore, not when Hux licks at it like a cat trying to clean it off. He’s not sure Hux is totally aware of what he does, of what meaning Kylo ascribes to it. He’s not decorated now, he’s blemished, stained, second-hand, imperfect. He wants to be perfect for Hux, but doesn’t know how. It’s not like he can scrub sub-dermal ink away in the shower. Laser treatment is expensive, slow, painful, and not always effective. He could cover it up, maybe, if Hux wanted to choose something to hide it. But he doesn’t know if Hux wants to stake his claim that way, making the move another man did before him. If Hux wants it gone, he will tell Kylo.

Some time later, still sweating, Hux draws himself out of bed, slaps Kylo’s bruising ass, and says, “Roll over.”

Jelly-limbed, Kylo obeys, flopping over and tucking his arms behind his head. Watches Hux pull on fresh shorts under his discarded clothes, step into the bathroom and dig around under the sink. He settles back on the bed next to Kylo, a bundle of things in his arms.

Cool, clammy fingers touch Kylo’s chest. “I can’t abide this,” Hux says, rapping his index finger against Kylo’s breast. He feels it in his sternum and clavicle, feels the dull vibration through his flesh into his bones.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kylo says. He doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he could take back everything from before, so he could be perfect for Hux, a blank in body and mind. Fresh wax to be molded.

“We can make it better,” Hux shushes him, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Kylo rubs at his watering eyes. He doesn’t deserve what Hux gives him, not when he’s imperfect and used. Hux can make him right.

When Hux leans back up, he’s pulling on the sterile blue gloves Kylo loves so much. He lets the glove snap against his wrist, and Kylo shivers automatically, even wrung out as he is. Hux slings a leg over Kylo’s body, settling just above his hips, not touching with the sterile gloves.

He points at the pile of things from the bathroom. “Pick up one of the white ones, love.”

Kylo grabs something that looks, but doesn’t particularly feel, like a condom. Hux reaches for something else, and for a moment Kylo thinks it’s a pen or mechanical pencil--something silver and straight, slightly textured for gripping.

“Open it.” Hux nods at Kylo’s hand.

He does; it stinks like rubbing alcohol and he frowns. “Alcohol wipes?”

“Don’t worry, darling. You trust me.”

He nods. Of course Kylo trusts his master. Hux is so good and kind, he knows what Kylo needs: when he needs to be put in his place even--especially--when he fights it, how badly Kylo needs some force against which he cannot win no matter how he thrashes, or a firm guiding hand, or a reward. He knows how desperately Kylo needs to be needed. Nobody can give Hux the endless pit of devotion Kylo can.

Hux takes the wipe in his left hand, gives the tattoo a no-nonsense scrubbing. Kylo’s brain still feels soft and liquid, not worried about whatever Hux has planned. Hux wouldn’t do anything bad to him, Hux loves him. He gives Kylo what he needs.

So the first cut is more surprise than pain. Hux’s hand is sure and steady, drawing the blade from left to right through the letters: crossing them out. The blade is so thin that at first Kylo hardly remembers to bleed, for a few seconds it’s just a neat, potentially-red lip. It’s only after a couple seconds when Kylo looks up at Hux in surprise and confusion that the blood wells in time with his tears.

“Sir?” he asks, lost. “Hux?”

“I told you,” Hux replies, eyes fixed on the wound, “I cannot abide that. I am going to cut it away.”

It doesn’t occur to Kylo to move. Why would he? Where would he go? He is where Hux wants him. Will Hux cut the patch of skin away, he wonders, leave him with a flayed rectangle?

It burns when Hux blots the blood away with the alcohol wipe, but Kylo doesn’t try to get away. He can’t get away, he wouldn’t want to go even if he could. It hurts; it’s Kylo’s own fault, if he hadn’t let someone else put their name on him then Hux wouldn’t have to cut it off. He deserves this.

The scalpel blade is straight and diagonal, like a box cutter. On tv scalpels always have bowed, rounded blades, good for shallow, incremental cuts, but this one is meant to dig and pull. This one cuts for depth, thin and impossibly deep, so deep that it might score bone; Kylo knows it won’t reach that far in but it feels like Hux could cut all the way out through his back like this.

Hux’s next cuts are even, closely-placed diagonal slices starting in the lower left corner of the tattoo, reaching ever so slightly out of the bounds of the ink, continuing to the upper right corner and bisected by the first horizontal. His cuts are steady, regular, almost calming except for when he blots at them to clear up the blood and rubbing alcohol seeps into the wounds. They’re too close together for stitches; it’ll all have to heal on its own. He scores his way across the offending letters, silent.

Kylo, for his own part, is silent as well, or as close as he can be. It hurts, in a mesmerizing way. He could get lost in this: Hux’s weight on top of him, the smooth stroke of the blade through his skin, the regular pulse of pain in time with his heart. He could stay here.

And then the knife moves lower to the meat of his chest, right over his heart: Hux draws the point of the blade down, vertically, twice. Joins them with a short horizontal. Kylo’s breath hitches for the first time. He can’t be--there’s no way Kylo is this lucky. Even in his wildest dreams he wouldn’t have dared ask for Hux to put his name on Kylo’s skin, not this permanently, not with his own hands.

The curve of the U is enough to break Kylo’s heart with gratitude. These strokes are infinitely tender, and deeper than the others. The letters are meant to stay. He imagines his heart beating hard enough to leap up to the tip of the knife when it bites in for the X, let his blood run right from the source.

All too soon, but somehow after an eternity, Hux wraps the blade in the now-red wipe and sets the scalpel aside. Kylo tries to see if the edge is dulled from the work, but he can’t tell. Another alcohol wipe pats at the seeping mess. Kylo’s eyes hurt. He doesn’t know if he’s been crying.

“I’ll dispose of those,” Hux says. “Wouldn’t want any sharps getting loose.”

“Uh-huh,” Kylo agrees. He feels drunk, or like he’s floating a couple inches above his own body. His tongue feels foreign in his mouth, like something he doesn’t fully know how to use.

Hux’s cold, sure hands layer sterile gauze over the wounds, seals it with medical tape. He presses a little harder than necessary. “To stop the bleeding,” he says when Kylo gasps. The bleeding is mostly over. The blood looks too dark against the blue gloves; Kylo wishes he could see his blood properly red against Hux’s bloodless-pale skin. Maybe next time. Maybe if he asks. Maybe if he’s lucky.

“Wait,” Kylo pleads to the back of Hux’s silk waistcoat when he stands to gather the evidence. “Please, please, was I good?”

His master stops, turns back to look. “It’s a good start. We shall have to see how you heal.”


End file.
